


For Want of Reality

by Raisans_Grapeon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blindness, Butterfly Culture AU, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Mild Blood, what am I even doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-12 21:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21483031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raisans_Grapeon/pseuds/Raisans_Grapeon
Summary: “You know there’s no going back after this. Gabriel will never take you in again. We can still live like this… together.” Aziraphale’s hand ghosted over the seal that held the world from the thinned man. Crowley’s face twitched as soft, cared fingers pressed into years old scarring.A weary sigh fell past the soft-haired man’s lips, weighted with the consequences of his decision. The unseen blade was cradled in thin, calloused fingers. The rough handle took on the heat of its holder, generously giving back as his palm grew cold. “I’m sorry, angel. But I need answers.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	For Want of Reality

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first Good Omens piece. I wasn't expecting it to be this but ok.
> 
> My partner wanted me to write a little something form my Butterfly Culture AU (see on my Instagram account: @raisans_grapeon) so I did. I wanted to create some mystery as to what is going on so hopefully, I did? I honestly have no idea what I'm even doing here, ok?
> 
> So, I am by no means professional or even good at writing. Any and all critiques would be greatly appreciated if you have them.
> 
> I'll explain everything a bit better at the end of the piece.
> 
> Please enjoy.

It was dark, felt only through the bitter nips that the night air took against cloth and skin alike. Silence accompanied the chill as birds finally found rest and even the crickets grew tired of their song. Not even the leaves dared to brush and hug each other. It was still, and utterly dark. Heathenous footsteps dared to pace through dirt paths, weaving expertly around murky obstacles from deeply ingrained memory. Cold rose from the soil and in between soft toes. Heels scraped by rocks without a twinge of pain through thickened skin. Deeply perturbed by the bite of the night, hairs stretched out, shivering as they were carried by movement. A breeze breathed out steadily through soft locks that cascaded delicately over the rougher fabric that draped lazily over a bony shoulder. The unexpected current caused the movement to halt for a moment, sealed eyes flinching against the tickle of air kissing wrinkled and crusted skin. Instinctively, hands pulled upwards, pressing into the warmth of the chest. Spindly fingers tightened against a vice wrapped in a course dishtowel. 

A breathless second passed before the legs began their trek again, carrying their host along with them. Parting slightly, the mouth huffed expelling a plume of heat into the still atmosphere. The face passed through the quickly dispersing cloud of warmth, brushing against a numbed nose that twitched with the feeling. A few measured steps until the body halted again. One hand released itself from the dishtowel, defined knuckles resting against barkless wood. A swift, but precise knock against the surface caused a deep sound to rumble for a mere split second. It was enough to get another person on the other side to allow their heat to spill out, and the night’s frigid teeth to begin their trek inwards. Light came in. A soft, pastel hue that radiated from delicate images burned into nothingness. Neither person dared to speak, the figure outside surging forward without hesitation into the embrace of the other’s heat. Hastily, the night was cut off, the lingering tendrils of cold writhing until they were no more. 

“Of all the nights, I wish you hadn’t come tonight,” the owner spoke, voice barely rising above the sound of a heartbeat. It was sorrowful and hurt. When the visitor didn’t speak, they continued. “I assume… you have it in there.” There was no question.

Soft waves of hair shifted against clothing. “Yeah.” The visitor’s voice was rough but hushed, a guilty confession professed before God.

The ghost of a sigh escaped into the heat. The owner had to turn away from the visitor, unable to face the overwhelming gold that spread out from them. “I don’t suppose… I could change your mind?”

Shamefully, the visitor tensed, a free hand searching outwards towards baby blue until it caught short, fuzzy curls. The hair bent welcomingly at the familiar weight as calloused fingers burrowed deeper to reach the heated scalp. The frozen pads sent a shiver through the owner. The visitor spoke, hand brushing the owner’s curls with reverence. “Not this time, Aziraphale.” 

The images set behind Aziraphale beat in a moment of indignance, only to drop woefully a moment later. He sighed again, leaning into the visitor’s touch desperately. The fingers twitched, moving to the side of Aziraphale’s head to cup his jawline, the flesh and skin of his freshly shaved face bending in the hold like silk cushions. The visitor could feel the smallest tremble in the other’s cheek. Under their hand, the muscles and bones pulled and shifted. “I just don’t understand, Crowley.” The admission was barely audible, sounding less like speech and more like meaning carried on air.

“I don’t either, angel. That’s why I’m doing this.” Crowley buried his nose into the curls on Aziraphale’s head, the scent of oak wood smoke and raspberries engulfing his mind. Aziraphale’s hair crested and held the soft-haired man in kind, adoration seeping through the slightest contact. “Keep me safe?” It was a plea, muffled in downy locks, words pressing into the crown of the softer man’s head.

Plump, tender fingers weaved into rivers of hair, curling back to press comfortingly into the nape of Crowley’s neck. The pads were marred by nothing but the ridges of fingerprints and not hardened by hours of labor, just reinforced by the hilt of a shortsword. “Always,” came out the strongest of the words spoken that night, ringing out into the stillness of darkness as a vow unshakeable. 

Retreating, Crowly lost Aziraphale to his own light, both hands clutching the dishcloth with conviction. “I’ll visit. I promise.” Deft fingers found the tattered edges and began to unravel the fabric.

Aziraphale hummed with plaintive contentment. Despite himself, he spoke out again, desperation clawing out of his chest. “You could stay. You could stop right here and we could go to bed.” Ribs rattled against his lungs as he drew in a breath. “I just washed the sheets. They smell of cedar and feel like butterfly wings…”

The sound of unwrapping didn’t stop. Course and used fibers brushed against the floorboards. An unnatural ring itched at Aziraphale’s ears. Metal always sounded so wrong, especially now. Nothing was returned to combat the irritating noises that resonated in the home. The sound of skin sliding against a cold, metallic blade sent sparks down the curly-haired man’s spine. 

“You know there’s no going back after this. Gabriel will never take you in again. We can still live like this… together.” Aziraphale’s hand ghosted over the seal that held the world from the thinned man. Crowley’s face twitched as soft, cared fingers pressed into years old scarring.

A weary sigh fell past the soft-haired man’s lips, weighted with the consequences of his decision. The unseen blade was cradled in thin, calloused fingers. The rough handle took on the heat of its holder, generously giving back as his palm grew cold. “I’m sorry, angel. But I need answers.” 

Aziraphale could only nod back. “You’ve always been too curious…”

The unmistakable melody of Cowley’s breathy chuckle seized the curly-haired man’s heart. It lurched again when fingers phased into the blue that sprung out of Aziraphale’s back. “Give me a moment, please… I need to remember these.” It was more so like the thinned man was talking to himself, yerning mingling with adoration that caused warmth to spread through Aziraphale’s chest. Baby blue seemed to drown out the darkness as Crowley tried to commit the shapes to memory. Large, intricate, gossamer butterfly wings beat selfconsciously, shapes hovering in the air without physical attachments. Their light was radiant but soft. Powerful but gentle. The true embodiment of everything Aziraphale was.

Aziraphale continued vainly. “If you don’t want to forget, then don’t do this. Then you can see them every day… like you always have.” Arms reached out and ensnared the lithe torso of the soft-haired man, pulling the body in closer into Aziraphale’s warmth. His cheek nestled into the waves of hair that fell over Crowley’s shoulders. The thinned man returned the gesture, his hold tight and secure. It made it all the more painful when the hug eased away into darkness. Into the gold that poured from Crowley’s wings.

“When I do this…” The when was what caused tears to build up behind Aziraphale’s sealed eyelids. “... I get to see your chubby little cherub face.” Hope lifted the end of Crowley’s sentence, but it instilled no such thing into Aziraphale. “I’ll visit,” he promised again, just as soft, and just as strangled. The curly-haired man just focused on Crowley’s expansive, glorious wings, and their glow. It was the only thing he could focus his sight on.

Crowley took deep, shuddering breaths that locked up in his lungs and did nothing to ease the painful tension in his right arm that held the knife. Shoulders raised in anticipation, he used his left hand to feel around the scarred tissue of his right eyelids. The damaged skin wrinkled and bunched, sealing his eyes shut indefinitely. Until that night.

Plenty of people have regained their physical sight and left. No one had a right to stop them, though stories often detailed the pain endured to cut through the scars to get the lids to open properly again, and often they wouldn’t. A misplaced cut left their eyelids mangled, but functional. Crowley took another breath and stretched the skin out as much as he could, touching the blade tip to find the right line to follow. Nerves caught up with the soft-haired man, gripping his heart and filling his mind with fears and doubts. His grip tightened on the handle, steadying the edge. The need to know took over, and Crowley raised the blade to his temple. Pressing the blade down and breaking the skin, he dragged the edge along his face, using the smoother skin as a runway before he got to the crease. The pain caused Crowley to hiss sharply, biting down on his tongue to minimize noise for Aziraphale’s sake. It burned, and rivulets of uncomfortable warmth trickled agonizingly slow down his cheek and lips. The smell of iron was open and pungent in the air. Still, he pushed forward, careful to make the cut shallow as to not cut into his actual eye. There was a point where he couldn’t keep his breathing even, huffing and hissing in an effort to keep his composure and fight back whatever natural responses would arise. Distantly, he could hear Aziraphale, gasping and crying. Desperate to get on with it, he pulled the blade quickly across his face, dragging off of his eyelid and across his nose. It only amplified the flare-up of pain, spreading all across his face.

The knife clattered to the ground as Crowley favored holding his new wound. He doubled over, his nerves and senses on fire all over. He shook and hissed and pressed hoping to alleviate a fraction of the pain. He breathed heavily, gasping frantically to keep his body working. Everything was hazy, coated in overbearing heat and pain.

A hand pressed over Crowley’s own, soft and cushiony. With the touch came relief. Not total, but enough to dull out the fire and give the thinned man some breathing room. Arms encased him, and Aziraphale’s tears hit the top of Crowley’s head. He tilted his head up to the source, the current of magic pouring from the curly-haired man’s body making movement easier. 

Crowley couldn’t see anything but darkness. Not even the baby blue of Aziraphale’s wings, even though his presence was there, sure enough. His right eye stung, but he forced it open anyway.

Above him, in the lowlight on the night, Crowley could see soft, round cheeks, scarred shut eyes leaking what he knew to be tears, and a curly mess of what he knew to be the softest thing in the whole town.

In his humble opinion, that face was worth the pain.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so what just happened?
> 
> Basically, this AU takes place in a world where magic acts like a separate sense, which also involves these butterfly wings that reflect the personality of the person. The bigger and more intricate the wings, the more good-natured and kind they are. Smaller or crumbling wings reflect negativity, emotional damage, and harm done to the person. The other senses obstruct the magic, hence regular people can't use magic, or see these wings. There is a culture of blind people who practice magic and blind their children so that everyone can see each other's wings only. They do this by burning the baby's eyes shut at a young age. They aren't saints.
> 
> Aziraphale and Crowly are a part of this community, which is ran by Gabriel. Crowley wants to know what real sight is, so he cuts through the scar tissue in order to see through his eyes instead of just seeing disembodied wings everywhere. He only gets through one eye, and is thrown out of the community since he is no longer fully blinded.
> 
> Again, critique is appreciated. Thank you for reading this travesty. Stay healthy!


End file.
